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“Father Mother”

While I was watching fellow tribe members shed their clothes onstage every night, Mom switched from letters to journals. It was 1969. She had gone from a twenty-four-year-old woman feeling the newness of two loves, to an adoring mother who reaped the so-called “rewards” of being a homemaker in the fifties, to an adult who displayed hints of defiance in the sixties.

The process of learning how to explore her own unanswered questions came from the action of moving a pen across paper. How had she found time? Not while preparing the endless tuna casseroles and cheese enchiladas that became leftovers for four lunch boxes five days a week; not at the kitchen counter, with wilting Kellogg’s Corn Flakes sprinkled with wheat germ waiting to be cleared. When was she able to grab a few minutes for herself? Not after Dad was at work or we were in school; not before figuring out the best way to stretch the budget so she could buy the extras everybody always begged for. Did she have free time between the dishes and laundry, and mending our clothes, and renewing her license, and helping Dorrie with her homework? No.

I have free time, time enough to have written this memoir while working on a product line for Bed Bath & Beyond and editing a book for Rizzoli Publications on modern architecture, time to leave home and act in a Larry Kasdan low-budget indie in Park City, Utah.

Even though Dexter, Duke, and I carry on the Hall family tradition of sitting down to dinner every night, our “It takes a village” version of the evening meal is unrecognizable from those days at the kitchen counter on Wright Street. My role as “Father Mother” (coined by Duke) is nothing like Mom’s. I reside at the head of the table. Dexter and Duke flank me on either side. Members of Team Keaton attend, like Sandra Shadic—renamed Sance Underpants by Duke—on some nights, “La La” Lindsay Dwelley on others. Ronen Stromberg comes by too. I love our dinners, but I don’t make them. Debbie Durand does.

As “Father God” (another of Duke’s terms of endearment), I begin with the high points and low points of our collective day. Duke makes a face. I pretend to ignore it and attempt to expand our sense of community spirit by injecting subjects like Heal the Bay’s annual report card on the worst beaches of Southern California. Dexter says, “At least it wasn’t Santa Monica again.” “Right, Dex. Thank God.” On the sidelines, Duke teases Dexter about her interchangeable crushes on boys with names like Max and Matthew and Tyler and Corey and Chris B. and Chris L. Dexter responds by calling Duke an “annoying pest” and ratting him out, saying Duke’s school pants got thrown into the shower after swim practice by him, not by Sawyer, as he claimed. Sandra reminds her to “give your brother a break.” I end it with “Duke Keaton! Sorry, but, guess what? Fun freeze.” Things get better when we begin the chat about Dexter’s high point, her birthday dinner. She wants fried onion rings, chicken nuggets, buttered pasta, the tuxedo cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory, and no GREEN of any kind at all whatsoever. Everyone joins in the cleanup. Dexter wants to use my iPhone. I give it to her reluctantly and begin talking about Elizabeth Edwards’s tragic ending, even quoting a sentence from the New York Times obituary about “the disparity between public image and private reality.” No one responds. Sandra, the fastest draw in the west, has put all the plates in the dishwasher before I can begin to get the milk to the refrigerator.

Mother’s time opened up when I left for New York City and Randy got a job as an usher at the Broadway Movie Theater in Santa Ana. Dorrie and Robin were wrapping up their high school years as Mother sat down and began to explore her thoughts on paper. It took the beginning of an end, on the cusp of the next decade, before Dorothy found her voice.

New Year’s Eve, 1968

I’m so excited for Robin; she got a job at Bullock’s as a demonstrator for cosmetic items. Dorrie is taking a ceramics class in Placentia. Jack and I have two Schwinn bikes we ride every other night to Baskin and Robbins 31 Flavors in Honer Plaza. So much fun. Randy’s writing more than ever. I’m so proud of him. Jack won the best speaker award at Toastmasters. Randy goes too and loves it. Diane’s coming home for a week. She got a break from rehearsals for Woody Allen’s Play It Again, Sam. Apparently she’ll be going to Hollywood for some auditions. She is now a light blond, very thin young woman. The total look is extremely GOOD! Everyone remarks about our beautiful daughters.

I started painting the kitchen. Jack’s almost got the fireplace mantel finished. It makes the whole room look just the way we want it: rustic, warm, and light. I can’t believe it’s all working out so well. I finished my first paid photo assignment today: 20 shots of Judy Weinhart in a book for $35.00. I hate to admit I’m pretty pleased. But I am.

I took a long ride in the industrial part of Santa Ana and had the greatest time looking at old rusty tin cans, wind-blown bottles, pitted rocks, toppled shacks, and torn signs. It was as if I could SEE the silence. Today Jack said that even if I divorced him, he would come home every night…. I loved that because that’s our story; we are infinitely tied to one another.

Thank you, somebody! Everybody. Thank you, Randy, Robin, Dorrie, Diane, and Jack. Thank you, people, nature, animals, Goya, and Kernel, our cats. We have so much. I feel my life is very full of beauty and love. Lets see if 1969 can be even better.

January 30, 1969

Dear Mom,

I moved yesterday; what a job! I wonder what it would be like if I actually had some furniture. Thanks for the box of goodies. I love the great teapot and the photographs. They’re fantastic. There’s no real place to put them except on the windowsill, which compensates for the LOUSY original stove. At least my stereo works. I’ve been playing Nina Simone and Morgana King, my favorite.

The rehearsals are going okay. Woody Allen is cute and, of course, very funny.

I know Dad wanted me to write down all my ideas concerning the money I owe him. Certainly I’m in no position to pay it all back right now. The landlord informed me that I owe him 29 dollars, and the telephone bills will be coming soon. When the play opens I want to take singing and dancing lessons. But tell Dad not to worry because next month I’m going to start to send 50 dollars every month until I pay back the 500 dollars I owe him. In the meantime, here’s my list of my expenses.

1. Rent $98.32. 2. Phone $10.00. 3. Phone service $5.00. 4. Singing lessons $40 a month, I guess. (Ugh.) 5. Dancing lessons $30, about. 6. Food $100 a month (I guess). That’s a total of $283 and 32 cents. It seems like an awful lot.

Love,

Diane

February 6, 1969

Jack and I flew all the way to New York City for the opening night of Play It Again, Sam. Jack Benny—Ed Sullivan—Walter Kerr—George Plimpton—Angela Lansbury—and other stars attended. We met Woody Allen afterwards. Oh my goodness. He was so shy and quiet, not like I expected at all. The play was very funny. Diane looked beautiful onstage—she wore a fall, which made her hair look really thick. She’s on a thing these days, always chewing a big mouthful of Dubble Bubble gum or sucking candy—or eating. I wish I knew how she stays so thin.

Everyone was very kind to us. At Sardi’s we sat at a table for 10 with champagne and cheesecake. We were told that Woody Allen’s new leading lady was his new heart interest too. This gave us a real kick.

February 10, 1969

We’re back home. I’m taking a class at UCI. My goal is to work HARD on writing an article and SELL IT. According to my teacher, if you want to write, write. Maybe I could work on something personal yet universal, like the way the kids are growing up so fast? I don’t know.

Seeing Diane was an experience. I can’t think of how to explain her effect on people. Of course, I’m speaking as I see her and am not without total bias. She is a mystery. She is independent. At times she’s so basic, at others so wise it frightens me that I got so far in this world without the benefit of such knowledge. I miss her.

February 18, 1969

Dear Mom,

It seems like you were just here. How did it go by so fast? Isn’t Woody hilarious? Did you really like the play? I couldn’t exactly tell. Woody does a lot of let’s just say unusual things onstage, things you wouldn’t think a person of his stature would do. Last night, in the middle of a scene he suddenly started impersonating James Earl Jones in The Great White Hope. I tried not to laugh, but it was impossible.

I think I had a date with him. We went to Frankie and Johnnie’s famous steakhouse. Everything was going well until I scraped my fork against the plate and made a normal, I stress normal, cutting noise. It must have driven him nuts, ’cause he yelped out loud. I couldn’t figure out how to cut my steak without making the same mistake, so I stopped eating and started talking about women’s status in the arts, like I know anything about women and the arts. What an idiot. The whole thing was humiliating. I doubt we’ll be having dinner together anytime soon. Today he sent me a little note. I think you’ll relate.

Love,

Diane

From Woody

Beet Head,

Humans are clean slates. There are no qualities indigenous to men or women. True, there is a different biology, but all defining choices in life affect both sexes & a woman, any woman is capable of defining herself with total FREEDOM. Therefore women are anything they choose to be & frequently have chosen & defined themselves greater than men. Don’t be fooled by THE ARTS! They’re no big deal; certainly no excuse for people acting like jerks & by that I mean, so what if up till now there were very few women artists. There may have been women far deeper than, say, Mozart or Da Vinci but contributing their genius in a different socially circumscribed context. Note how I switched from pen to pencil at this moment because in Lelouch’s film, A MAN & A WOMAN, he switches from color to black & White—So I underline my point using the same symbolism—Very clever? OK, then, very stupid.

Woody

March 20, 1969

Diane was nominated for the Best Supporting Actress for the Tony Awards coming in April. Randy’s writing teacher read two of his poems in class. One, called “Out of the Body,” was submitted to the school yearbook. He’ll make it.

Out of the Body

All the voices of my past are here in this grassy clearing

At the foot of the mountain.

At first I thought it was the rattle of nesting birds,

perhaps rocks falling from a cliff.

Like bells, the words took shape.

Paragraphs etched out of trees.

Stories of lives hung sadly in the air, like pages of

failure.

I didn’t want to listen

I heard my own voice on the flat face of the mountain;

small, and weak.

I heard the sound of myself dying in the cold,

Another animal;

An animal with the gift of language

caught in the trap of distance.

June 14, 1969

Sunday night 10 p.m. The Tony Awards. Diane lost to some other gal. She was on TV, but we couldn’t see her more than once, and it was fleeting.

July 7, 1969

A letter arrived from the draft board asking for verification from Randy’s psychologist that he’s unable to serve. It felt like a threat. Grandma Hall called. She thinks Randy was scared! Well, why not? He probably was. Who wouldn’t be? “If we could learn how to prevent war, wouldn’t that be enough?” he said. These are divisive times.

July 16, 1969

Department of the Army

To Whom It May Concern:

I have known Randy Hall for more than 15 years during which time I had the opportunity to observe the boy both as a neighbor and as a patient. Though he has never been mentally ill in the classical, clinical sense of the term he has demonstrated a prolonged condition of emotional instability which, in my opinion, would make him unfit for military service. Recent observation of the boy would cause me to have no change in that opinion, though he has managed to develop some covering behaviors which may have the impression of greater maturity and development than actually exists.

As a psychologist currently working with the Department of Defense in an overseas setting I believe that this boy would not fit into the military service and would actually be a liability rather than an asset to the military community.

William L. Bastendorf, PhD

Associate Director Pupil Personnel Services

More Positive Thinking

Just in case we might have been looking for a little quick advice, Dad had several copies of Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People prominently placed throughout our house on Wright Street. Part of its appeal came from clever chapter headings, categorized in sections with quick-fix nuggets. “Twelve Ways to Win People to Your Way of Thinking: 1. Avoid arguments. 2. Never tell someone they are wrong. 3. Start with a question the other person will answer yes to. 4. Let the other person feel the idea is his.”

Dad’s letters were an homage to Carnegie’s influence. “Dear Diane, Rule 1. January 5 is one of those days that make men older. A daughter 20 years old is not really an asset to a young man like myself! Truth in government is a must, but truth in age is stupid. Starting now, you are 17 and I am 35. Love, Jack N. Hall, your father.”

Next to Dale Carnegie’s book was Norman Vincent Peale’s The Power of Positive Thinking. Published in 1952, it stayed on the New York Times bestseller list for 186 weeks, selling more than five million copies. The country was in love with Peale’s cozy quotes. “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.” “The tests of life are not meant to break you, but to make you.” “A positive mental attitude means you can overcome any kind of trouble or difficulty.” Dad ate it up. He didn’t give a damn about critics who claimed Peale was a fraud.

At age forty, Jack Hall quit his job as Santa Ana City Hall’s civil engineer to become the president of Hall & Foreman, Incorporated. He gave credit where credit was due, claiming every bit of his business acumen had been enhanced 100 percent by applying Carnegie’s and Peale’s tried-and-true techniques. Mom must have been sick and tired of hearing Dad list the twelve steps he learned to be an effective leader. But guess what? Within a few years he was a self-made success.